


One of the Bad Days

by hipbonesofChrist



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Military, Angst and Feels, British Military, Depression, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Guilt, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, War flashbacks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:29:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29842233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hipbonesofChrist/pseuds/hipbonesofChrist
Summary: Geralt's family keeps a doomsday calendar. A list of dates that coincide with traumatic events in his life. A list of dates where Geralt checks out, breaks down, needs to be kept company and taken care of.They didn't know about this one.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Kudos: 24





	One of the Bad Days

What was there to say about Captain Geralt Bellegarde? His brothers, veterans themselves, would have called him strong. His boyfriend would have called him noble. His old flame would have smirked and narrowed her violet eyes, and called him a martyr.⠀

But those words fell on deaf ears compared to what Geralt called himself, in the privacy of his own mind.

 _Unlovable_.

 _Damaged_.

 _Inadequate_.

On the outside, the veteran was stoic and imposing. A man of few words and fewer friends. If his broad stature, his once-dark hair well on the way to being white, and his unnerving hazel eyes did not chase people away, he would take matters into his own hands, and do it himself.

Sometimes even his family couldn’t convince him he was worthy of any good thing.

The comments about his scars hardly bothered him anymore. He had a multitude, more on his chest than on his face. And besides, his brother Eskel had worse. It would be selfish of him to be ashamed of his appearance, when he’d spent so long trying to build up Eskel’s confidence.⠀

No, the things that bothered Geralt, that forced him back into his shell of self-loathing, were much more subtle. Seeing horses in the countryside, for example, reminded him of the horse he’d gotten after being honourably discharged. Taking care of her had helped him for a long time, and being reminded of her death meant pulling away from everyone to grieve yet again.

Geralt’s skin was full of wounds that had already healed. But his mind was riddled with wounds that would never close.

It was hard to tell what had set Geralt off on this particular day. But when Jaskier came home from his gig at the local bar, Eskel and Lambert in tow, Geralt was nowhere to be found.

At first, Jaskier’s optimism got the better of him. He checked the bedroom, office, and bathroom, even as Eskel and Lambert traded knowing glances. The house was eerily silent, and Geralt wasn’t here. Which meant something had reopened an old wound—a sight, a sound, an errant comment—and their brother was off nursing it by himself. Even though they’d told him time and time again: _let us help you_ _._

He did, sometimes. But other times, the hurt was too deep, he was too panicked. During those times, he felt like he had nobody, and had to be convinced that people cared again.

“He’s not here.” The helplessness in Jaskier’s voice betrayed his nerves, and his expressive eyes flickered over Eskel, who looked concerned, and Lambert, who was currently crouched in front of the liquor cabinet he’d been banned from weeks ago. “Wh—Lambert! Now is not the time!”

Sitting back on his heels, Lambert glared up at the musician. “Vodka’s gone. Big bottle.”⠀

“Good thing he isn’t driving,” Eskel said, at the same time Jaskier huffed, “How did you know what was in there?”

“Lucky guess,” Lambert replied, and then added more seriously, “He always has vodka on hand.” Jaskier faced him with a disappointed look while Eskel walked unhurriedly to the table.

“We can’t track his phone. He left it.” He called to them, stopping the beginnings of an argument in his tracks. As if to prove his point, he held the outdated iPhone up. Unanswered messages from Jaskier shone on the illuminated screen.⠀

“Well that’s fucking great.” Jaskier threw his hands up, afterwards resting them on his hips. “How are we going to find him now?”

“If we can figure out what set him off...” Eskel murmured, looking around. “Wasn’t he here all day?”

“He...” Running a hand through his hair, Jaskier sighed. “He should have been.”

“You want us to look for clues?” Lambert scoffed, earning himself two steely glares. Holding his hands up in surrender, he nodded towards the liquor cabinet. “Found mine. Wherever he is, he’s shitfaced.”

“Fuck you, Lambert.” Jaskier snapped, but the way his voice trembled warned the older man not to pursue it any longer.⠀

“You were here earlier, Jaskier.” Eskel called, diverting the attention to himself before Lambert could upset the musician any further. “Anything look out of place?”⠀

Jaskier looked around, his blue eyes wide, but focused. Trying to remember how things were left this afternoon, when he’d kissed Geralt goodbye and gone to his gig. Even then, Geralt had been subdued—not speaking much, spending most of the day in bed. Jaskier cursed himself for not seeing the signs of a burgeoning breakdown. He should have stayed, should have known...but, no. Running his hand through his hair as if to brush off those guilty thoughts, Jaskier took a slow breath. Geralt was the most stubborn man the musician had ever known. Even if Jaskier had asked what was wrong, Geralt would not have offered it.

Going into the bedroom, Jaskier set his hands on his hips and surveyed the area. Eskel and Lambert, having apparently found nothing of importance out in the spacious living room or kitchen, followed close behind. Jaskier could almost feel the tension radiating off of Eskel, and not for the first time, he felt a pang of sadness for the three veterans that had become his family. He would never fully be able to understand what war had taken from them.

That’s not what he was here for, though. He did not love Geralt so he could pity him. He loved him because he loved him, and they would weather any bad day the veteran had. In fact, Jaskier thought, when they got him home, and after his brothers no doubt pushed him into a cold shower, he would wrap Geralt up in his fluffiest bathrobe, and they would all watch a movie on the...

“The closet wasn’t open.” Jaskier said suddenly. He’d inadvertently looked towards it, where Geralt’s bathrobe was hung, and noticed it was no longer closed like it had been earlier.

The box of Geralt’s military items...the one he never opened...sat in that closet.⠀

Going to it, Jaskier pulled the door farther open. Sure enough, there sat the box, open and rifled through.

“I got it.”⠀

Ignoring Lambert’s words, Jaskier carefully lifted some of the items out, trying to figure out what had been opened, what had been touched. Medals, letters, pictures, a gun Jaskier refused to touch, the uniform folded at the bottom of the container...

“I _got_ it.”

Any one of these could have set Geralt off. But none of them told him anything about where he _went._ About _𝘸𝘩𝘺_ he felt the need to look through these items today, of all days. Tears of frustration began to well up in Jaskier’s eyes.

“Songbird.” Eskel lay a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder, startling him. Looking up, Jaskier realized the brothers were looking at him with concern. 

“I’m fine,” he sniffled.

“I know. Lambert knows where he went.”

Jaskier wiped his eyes with his shirtsleeve and stood hurriedly, patting the hand Eskel had left on his shoulder. He’d tuned Lambert out before, too focused on the box of bad memories, but now the man was looking at him expectantly.

“It’s Leo. Today has to be…the anniversary of his death, or something.” Lambert shrugged. “Didn’t keep track because I didn’t know him.”

“Leo?” Jaskier looked clueless, and Eskel looked mildly surprised.

“He’s never mentioned him to you?”

“No…” Although, if Jaskier thought hard, he recalled Geralt withdrawing, getting temperamental, around this time last year. He just hadn’t known why...and at that point, he hadn’t known Geralt well enough to ask.

“Lambert—why didn’t you keep track?” Eskel approached him, and the ex-soldier tensed, but the older man simply waved a hand at him, wanting him to move out of the doorway.

“Because I’m not his fuckin’ babysitter.” Lambert replied petulantly, and then reconsidered. “Because he never told me shit about Leo. And I never saw him break down about it.”

Ever since Geralt had returned from active duty, Lambert had kept what he affectionately called a doomsday clock—a calendar of Geralt’s hard days. The day Roach died, the day Vesemir did—that one was hard on all of them—even Geralt’s own birthday. But Geralt had kept this one curiously hidden, for years, it seemed.

“I’ll put it on the doomsday—“ Two pairs of eyes glared Lambert’s way. “The calendar, I mean.”

“Right now, we have to go to the memorial.” Eskel added. Jaskier drew his keys from his pocket.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and critiques are greatly appreciated!


End file.
